My Lemonade Lady

by Sneha Lala (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

Making a local connection India

‘This is how I die’, thought seven-year-old me. I was lost. Not very lost mind you, but to little me it seemed like the end of the world: the dusty roads of Maharashtra, India, had warped into a dystopian oppressor, trapping me into a life of solitude and despair. This, surely, was the end. 2005, my seventh birthday and so, naturally, I was virtually an adult. I didn’t feel like one, however, as masses of giant-like creatures walked straight on by, their gaze going through me as if I were invisible. But then, my lemonade lady found me. My guardian angel, a picture of weathered beauty, faintly marred by maternal concern. My lemonade lady saw me. She saw a distressed child. She didn’t understand my words, but she understood my fear. Every day without fail in the thanklessly hot summer months, my lemonade lady would come from a nearby village to the Karla caves and, every day without fail, she would sooth weary travellers’ throats with her elixir. The caves date back to the first millennium CE, a fact I learned from Wikipedia and not my actual visit as I had been far more interested in racing my brother to the car park. My child-like fantasies assumed that my lemonade lady had always been there, protecting the caves, giving respite to pilgrims and Western tourists alike. It seemed impossible that the structure could survive without her strong presence, and surely all of India would fall without a woman like her. My lemonade lady would service countless numbers, but never be seen. Tourists would push past her, eager to reach their destination. If they did notice her, they quickly forgot her existence after their thirst was quenched. My lemonade lady may have been invisible to others, but I was not invisible to her. Though all others failed to, she saw me. She took me under her wing, speaking rapidly in Marathi. I replied back in broken Hindi, obscured further through my thick English accent. But my lemonade lady didn’t give up, she took me by the hand and began, what seemed to me, a never-ending journey up winding steps. She asked everyone we passed if they could understand me, till she found an English-speaking couple who were able to translate. What felt like hours later, I was already panicking that I couldn’t quite remember the contours of my mum’s face (yes, I was overdramatic and, yes, I still am). In reality, it was probably only about 30 minutes. Finally, I heard a familiar voice. My hero smiled as I bulldozed into my Mother’s arms, reunited at last. My family tried to offer money, but my lemonade lady refused, allowing us to purchase her drink but refusing to accept a single rupee above the asking price. She didn’t have much; she lived in a hut, her whole family in one room. But my lemonade lady wanted neither money nor recognition. She just wanted me to be safe. Fast-forward to the summer of 2019. I was solo travelling for the first time, exploring the Lushan mountains in China. Once again, I found myself to be utterly lost, with daylight quickly fading. I may have been thousands of miles away in a whole new country, but my lemonade lady was always with me, my guardian angel. As the first tears escaped, motivated by exhaustion and fear, she found me. This time she took the form of a family: two sisters, their husbands and children. They immediately pulled up and welcomed me into the car. We had no language in common, but they knew I needed help. They drove me to a main road, waited with me until a taxi came, and made sure the driver knew exactly where I needed to go. They asked for nothing in return and cared for me as if I were their daughter. My lemonade lady has appeared in many shapes and forms over my life, and, I hope, I have been a lemonade lady for others in return. But I’ll never forget the original, my saviour. I sometimes wonder if she’s still there, serving all who walk by, unfailingly kind. My lemonade lady, protector of the Karla caves.